


Saint Dean and the Monster

by Aerlalaith



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels are Dicks, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Crack, Creature Castiel, Fluff and Crack, Frottage, Hunters & Hunting, I Don't Even Know, Loch Ness Monster, Long-Suffering Sam, M/M, Scotland, Tourism, so much crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:13:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5802136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerlalaith/pseuds/Aerlalaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is the Loch Ness Monster. Dean is a very confused American tourist. Sam suffers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saint Dean and the Monster

**Author's Note:**

> This is total crack. I'm not sorry.

The skies were gray and drizzly. Dean pulled his leather jacket more closely around himself and shivered. He cast a sullen glance at his brother—or, more accurately, at the warm and fluffy looking embroidered scarf wrapped around his brother’s neck—and sniffled, wiping the back of his hand across his nose and then on his jeans.  
   
“That scarf makes you look ridiculous.”  
   
Sam glanced down at the article in question. He looked appropriately smug at Dean’s petulant tone, securing the scarf tightly next to the zipper of his jacket. “I told you, you could’ve gotten one too.”  
   
“I am not going to wear a scarf with pink hearts all over it,” Dean said. He rested his hands on the cold and wet of the railing, very dignified. “I have my limits.”  
   
Sam crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “They’re _maroon_. Besides, we went to the game, didn’t we? I wanted to get something to remember it by.”  
   
“Well, it definitely brings out your eyes, Sammy,” Dean told him. Sam huffed and turned away.  
   
“You’re an ass.”  
   
“Pansy.”  
   
“Jerk.”  
   
“B—oh, fuck,” Dean swore, as the boat pitched in a particularly rough swell and a wave of water came crashing over the side. He glared as Sam snorted. “These are my only pair of shoes.”  
   
“Told you to bring more than one pair.”  
   
“Shut up, it’s your fault we’re out here in the first place.”  
   
Sam held his hands up defensively. “Hey, you’re the one who was all gung ho on the Loch Ness Monster. I just got the tickets.”  
   
Dean opened his mouth to retort, but Sam crooked an eyebrow at him, and Dean’s shoulders slumped. “We can put them on the radiator in the hotel room when we get back,” he muttered.  
   
The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched as he patted Dean consolingly on the shoulder.  
   
“Oh, fuck off.”  
   
“I’m going to go inside to the coffee bar,” Sam said. He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Want anything?”  
   
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.” Dean let loose a quick smile, nodding towards the far off shoreline. “Gotta keep watch for that monster.”  
   
“Dean, the Loch Ness Monster isn’t real. It’s just a myth.”  
   
Dean gave him an amused look. Sam scowled, lowering his voice.  
   
“Dean,” he said, “if you happen to see the Loch Ness Monster—which you won’t _,_ because it’s not real—at least try to remember that we’re here for a vacation, would you?” A beat. “Not for work.”  
   
Dean blinked at him innocently.  
   
Sam pointed a threatening finger at his face. “Do not gank Nessie. We don’t want to have to explain to the Scottish hunting community that we offed their mascot.”  
   
Dean snorted. “I would pay to watch you do that,” he said, as Sam’s lips thinned.  
   
“I’m going to go get some coffee,” he said, raising his chin. He turned smartly on his heel, careful of the slippery deck, and marched away towards the ship’s cabin. Dean waved him off, still smirking. When the door clicked shut behind him, Dean turned back to gazing at the water.  
   
It was incredible really, how the steely waters of Loch Ness were the exact same gray as the skies above. Dean let out an exhale and leaned more fully against the railing, letting the rocking motion of the boat sway him side to side.  
   
“Keeping watch for Nessie, are you?”  
   
Dean turned his head to his right to see one of his shipmates, rain slicker pulled up around his collar, flatcap jammed down over his ears, step out next to him.  
   
“Sure,” Dean said.  
   
“My cousin saw it once,” said the man.  
   
“Really.”  
   
“Swear it on my mother’s grave.”  
   
Dean rotated fully to face his companion, and gave him an assessing look, eyes narrowed. The man’s face split into a grin.  
   
“Naw!” he crowed, slapping Dean on the shoulder. The corner of Dean’s eye twitched. “I’m just having you on. You American?”  
   
“Yeah,” said Dean.  
   
“Thought so. George Hamilton,” said the man, sticking out his hand. Reluctantly, Dean shook it.  
   
“Dean Winchester.”  
   
“Oh, Winchester? My neighbor growing up was a Winchester. What are you here for—business? Holiday?”  
   
“Uh.”  
   
“Family?”  
   
“…Not really,” said Dean. “Just…traveling.”  
   
“And monster hunting,” said George, smiling and nodding.  
   
Dean grimaced.  
   
“I’m here on holiday myself,” said George, who seemed to take Dean’s silence for permission to continue the conversation. “Not what I would’ve picked, mind you, would’ve liked to go somewhere a bit warmer, but my wife has family up in Inverness, so here we are.” He spread his hands as if to say, _what can you do?_  
   
Dean managed another painful looking twitch, which might have passed for a smile.  
   
A second large swell rocked the boat, and he and George both lunged for the handrail. After a moment, the motion quieted down, and George removed his hands. Dean meanwhile, kept a firm grip. George let out a rueful chuckle and straightened his jacket.  
   
“Getting a bit rough out here for my tastes.”  
   
“No kidding,” Dean muttered. He glanced suspiciously at the water, but there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen.  
   
“Well,” said George, “I think I’ll go inside and have a coffee. What about you?”  
   
“I, uh,” said Dean. He heard a splash and swiveled quickly towards the sound, but all he saw was little waves hitting the sides of the boat.  
   
George tilted his head quizzically, as Dean’s gaze tracked across the water.  
   
Dean coughed. “I uh, I think I’ll stay out here for a little bit more,” he said. “I mean,” he forced a grin, “when am I ever going to have the chance again, right?”  
   
George shrugged. “If you’re sure.”  
   
“Oh yeah, yeah.” Dean coughed again. “I uh, really, really like boats so…this is just, I mean…” he cleared his throat, determinately not flinching as the first raindrops began to fall. “This is just great,” Dean said flatly. “Really.”  
   
“Well,” George said, now looking a bit concerned, “enjoy yourself then, I suppose.”  
   
Dean managed more of a half-smile that time, giving an awkward wave with one hand as George turned toward the cabin door, ducking underneath the threshold as he headed inside. Dean sighed as he felt the slightest bit of warm cabin air waft towards, him, doing little more than remind him of just how cold he was.  
   
“Yep, I’m an idiot,” he said to the railing. He took in the horizon again, now slightly blurrier on account of the drizzle. The mountains were very nice, he consoled himself. He didn’t have to be in such a bad mood, he decided. He was getting some fresh air, seeing something new, but without the work and ghosts and death part.  
   
This was a good thing. This is what they had saved up that money and time for. There were—fuck—there were _trees_ , and, and _fish and chips,_ and _scotch_ , and that real weird looking grey island with the blinky eyes…  
   
“Oh, fuck me,” said Dean, jolting upright. The blinky eyes, atop a (comparatively) small head the size of a modest motorcycle, swiveled to stare at him. Dean let go of the railing in a hurry. He was just about to turn right around and bolt for the cabin, when the head, on a neck of mutant giraffe proportions, drew back, looking rather affronted (or as affronted as a monster could look, Dean supposed) and dove underneath the surface.  
   
“Oh sh—” Dean managed to get out, right before the resulting waves splashed across the bow and knocked him off his feet, straight into the chill of Loch Ness.  
   
Dean shouted in alarm, but nothing escaped him but bubbles. He struggled, fighting his clothing, his shoes, and the biting cold. Shuddering, as much at the frigidness of the water surrounding him, as at the sense of being closed in on by the murky dark, Dean kicked out, vainly trying to hit the bottom. Nothing. He kicked again, harder, trying not to remember their tour guide just that morning cheerfully going on about the _second deepest loch in all of Scotland_ , and _just how very amazing that was_ and—  
   
Against all improbabilities, his foot hit something. But it wasn’t the soft, muddy bottom he’d been hoping for, no. This was harder and, well, _rubbery_.  
   
If he hadn’t already been in the middle of drowning, Dean would have swallowed the whole damn lake in alarm. Meanwhile, Nessie, still somehow managing to look incredibly put upon about the whole thing, propelled Dean upward with one flick of a grey flipper. Dean’s head broke surface just long enough for one of the deckhands to grip him about the back of his shirt collar, and haul him, choking and retching, up onto a dinghy.  
   
“Are you all right?” his rescuer demanded, as he was deposited back onto the main deck of the boat.  
   
“I,” Dean said, through chattering teeth. He watched dazedly as Sam shoved his way through the gathered crowd. “I—I saw the—”  
   
“Dean,” Sam said softly, sharply.  
   
“The monster,” Dean said.  
   
“Oh dear,” said George, as Sam covered his face with his hands.  
   
“He—that bastard knocked me right over—over…” he trailed off, realizing that, even by his standards, what he was trying to say sounded quite insane. The deckhand certainly thought so. He was standing back a little, arms crossed. Dean shut his eyes, resting the back of his head on the deck of the ship. “It was a freaky rogue wave,” he said tiredly. “Knocked me right over.”  
   
“Oh, aye,” George volunteered. “I saw it!” He winked at Dean.  
   
“The wave was fairly large I suppose,” the deckhand said, doubtfully.  
   
“Believe me,” said Dean, pushing himself up on his elbows. He cast a dark glance in the direction of the, currently monster free, waters. “I had absolutely no plans to go for a swim.”  
   
That at least got a laugh out of them, the tension dissipating. The deckhand pulled Dean to his feet, about two seconds before Sam finally pushed through enough people to start patting Dean down to make sure he wasn’t dead, clucking like a mother hen all the while.  
   
Dean endured it, nodding his thanks towards George over Sam’s shoulder, accepting the blanket the crew shoved at him, and then the steaming mug of hot chocolate, and finally the change into what looked like someone’s old uniform, but at least it was dry.  
   
He ensconced himself next to the coffee bar for the remaining hour of the trip back to  Drumnadrochit, sipping the hot chocolate, and generally trying not to make eye contact with anybody, while Sam hovered, alternating between relief and exasperation on strictly one minute shifts.  
   
The hovering continued, with the ship’s captain insisting Dean ride straight to the hospital at Inverness as soon as he disembarked, never mind his protests, and with Sam being generally useless when it came to dissuading him. At least George was nice enough to point them towards a decent place to stay in Inverness, and even offered a few suggestions on things to do that didn’t involve boat rides.  
   
Discharged more or less healthily several hours later, Dean, exhausted, collapsed onto the hotel bed, not even bothering to reply to Sam’s offer of takeout.  
   
He spent the next day shivering in bed, covers up to his chin and a never-ending supply of hot tea and biscuits brought up by the concerned proprietor, Margaret.  
   
“Margy,” Dean commented, on her third trip upstairs, “if you keep giving me these, I’m going to get flabby.”  
   
“Oh, for goodness sake,” said Margaret, with an admonishing snap of the tea towel. “If a dunk in the loch isn’t a good enough reason to take to your bed, I really don’t know what would qualify.”  
   
To be fair, Dean couldn’t really disagree with her.  
   
“They are delicious,” he admitted, taking another.  
   
“Thank you, dear. Oh, take two, would you? One for your brother, there.”  
   
_Like hell_ , Dean thought, possessively cradling the biscuit in his hand. Sam, being the cold bastard that he was, had seized upon the opportunity of Dean’s convalescence to go visit some kind of arts and history museum that otherwise would have required Dean to be dragged, kicking and screaming past the entrance. Dean hadn’t seen hide or hair of him since early that morning.  
   
“Now, you tell me if Samuel doesn’t come back in time for supper,” Margaret said sternly, “and I’ll fix you something.”  
   
Dean indicated a biscuit, confused. It was almost 5 pm. “Isn’t this supper?”  
   
Something in Margaret’s eyes glinted. “This is tea.”  
   
“Oh.” Dean swallowed. “I really wouldn’t want to impose…” he hedged.  
   
“Nonsense!” said Margaret. “It wouldn't be an imposition at all. I already have a roast in the oven.”  
   
Unfortunately for Dean, Sam returned shortly after to drag Dean out of bed and into the pub across the street, before he had the chance to take Margaret up on her offer.  
   
“Have you just been eating cookies all day?” Sam asked, aghast.  
   
“No,” Dean lied. He pretended to study the menu.  
   
“God, I can’t believe I’m telling you to eat something solid,” Sam complained, mostly to himself, while Dean turned to follow a glimpse of messy black hair attached to a very nice looking butt. Shaking himself, Dean returned to the menu just as Sam snapped out, “Dean.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“Are you ready to order?”  
   
“Huh?”  
   
“He’ll have the haggis,” Sam said to the waitress, who raised a skeptical eyebrow before dutifully scribbling it down.  
   
“What? No I won’t!” Dean protested, shooting Sam a dirty look. He then graced the waitress with his best smile. “I’ll uh…” he hesitated, but seeing Sam open his mouth again, said quickly, “the fish and chips. Thanks.”  
   
“You don’t even like fish,” Sam accused, as soon as the waitress was out of earshot.  
   
Dean sniffed. “I do when it’s breaded and fried.” He took a delicate sip of his beer.  
   
Sam snorted. “Yeah, sure Dean.”  
   
“You calling me a liar?”  
   
“Depends. You going to tell me what really happened on that boat?”  
   
“I told you!” Dean lowered his voice when he saw a few heads swivel his way. “I saw the fucking monster, okay? And when it dove underwater, the wave knocked me overboard.”  
   
Sam leaned back in his chair, still looking rather doubtful.  
   
Dean huffed. “Okay, seriously. We kill vampires, ghosts, and werewolves with regularity, but somehow you find this difficult to believe?”  
   
“Well,” said Sam. “It _is_ a little fantastical.” He had the grace to look a bit shamefaced. “Sorry.”  
   
Dean allowed his head to thunk onto the table. “I’m going to prove it to you,” he vowed to the lacquered wood.  
   
“That’s like trying to prove Bigfoot. You think someone would’ve managed it by now.”  
   
“Bigfoot is a myth.” He rolled his eyes at Sam’s pointed stare. “This isn’t! I fucking saw it, okay?”  
   
Sam was saved having to answer by the arrival of their food. As the plates were set down, Dean happened to glance over the waitress’s shoulder, only to catch sight of Messy Hair And Nice Butt again. He grinned, chewing open-mouthed on a piece of fish.  
   
As if sensing Dean’s gaze on him, the man turned and their eyes met. Dean choked a little. _Goddamn_. Nice butt, nice hair, _and_ a pretty face. Dean sent a cocky eyebrow his way, making sure to add his signature smolder. The man in question tilted his head, quizzical, and then suddenly his eyes widened, his face blanched, and he hurriedly turned away.  
   
Dean frowned, a little miffed. What was that dude’s problem? He was a total catch!  
   
“And it’s only a couple of hours away,” Sam was saying, a little too enthusiastically for Dean’s tastes. He scowled.  
   
“What’s that?”  
   
Sam sighed. “The castle, Dean. The castle we’re going to see tomorrow.” When Dean made a face, Sam said, not at all snidely, “Why did you even want to come to Scotland if you don’t want to do any of the stuff?”  
   
To be fair, Dean really didn’t have a response for that. He might’ve made plans assuming that things would be a little bit more, well, _Braveheart_ than they were turning out to be, but he couldn’t exactly tell that to Sam.  
   
“What about the whiskey distillery?” he said instead. “I’d go to that.”  
   
At his reply, Sam somehow managed to look both exasperated and intrigued. Satisfied, Dean dug into his fish again. It really wasn’t half bad.  
   
Despite Dean’s initial reluctance, the next morning saw the brothers packed onto a garishly painted tour bus, Sam paging through the guidebook, and Dean pacified with the promise of a future visit to the distillery in Oban.  
   
It was bizarrely sunny, and the light streamed through the windows and onto Dean’s face and neck as he snoozed against the side of the bus. He was jolted awake when it screeched to a stop, the driver calling out, “Urquhart Castle! Urquhart!”  
   
Like a shot Sam was up, clutching his camera in one hand and guidebook in the other, joining the throng of fat, balding tourists, with their white sneakers and snot-nosed, screaming children. Dean followed at a much more sedate pace, partly to preserve his air of dignity, and partly because one dude had totally knocked him back onto his seat as he squeezed past.  
   
Second to last off the bus, Dean took a moment to shade his eyes with his hand and survey the castle proper. His gaze travelled up slouched and crumbly stone walls, across half-surviving turrets, and down ivy-covered spaces where windows used to arch.  
   
Dean tilted his head, considering. All right, Sam might’ve had a point with this one, he was forced to admit. Ruined castle? Totally his jam.  
   
“Holy shit, is that a moat?” he said.  
   
“It’s not filled anymore, but it used to be, yeah.” Sam brandished the guidebook at him. Against his better judgment, Dean took it, and was immediately confronted with a quick blurb on the castle’s history, and a set of maps.  
   
“Says here they blew up the gate,” Dean said, awed, as they passed a large chunk of broken masonry. Sam nodded tolerantly, handing over two twenty pound notes to the woman at the fee station. He waited to collect his change while Dean walked on ahead, only catching up to him at the entrance to the tower.  
   
They spent what could only be described as a thoroughly pleasant few hours wandering the grounds. Dean was sure he’d never spent that much consecutive time in a ruined building without encountering at least one ghost. It was a surprisingly refreshing experience to be able to just take in the scenery, without the imminent threat of death or disembowelment. Dean almost thought that he could get used to it. Maybe he’d retire to an old castle like this.  
   
Just before lunch, they stopped at the gift shop. Sam eyed the rows of Nessie themed keychains, before picking one out with googly eyes and a wide grin to attach to Dean’s car keys for when they got back to the states. Dean meanwhile, had surreptitiously drifted over to the books section, and now stood paging through any books he could find featuring historical monster sightings. There wasn’t much to go on, mostly black and white photographs and decades-olds interviews with professional pranksters. Dean put the last book back with a sigh.  
   
“Hey, I’m gonna go pay for this,” said Sam, appearing beside him. He hoisted up a basket. Dean peered inside and snorted at the T-shirt, three postcards, calendar, and commemorative mug (the keychain was strategically hidden under the calendar).  
   
“Who the hell are you going to send a postcard to?”  
   
“Bobby and Garth,” Sam replied easily. “The mug’s for Bobby.”  
   
“ _Garth_?”  
   
“He asked for one.”  
   
“Huh.” To be honest, that did sound exactly like something Garth would ask for. And Sam would be the sucker who actually indulged him. Dean thumbed toward the exit. “I’m going to go wait outside.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
As Sam joined one of the lines, Dean made his way to a bench a few feet away from the door. He leaned back against the cool stone and watched another group of tourists headed towards the visitor center, to be confronted with one of the castle staff. Dean had encountered a few of them, but given his natural hesitance towards authority figures, had done his best to avoid them. Even though he knew that he was here totally legitimately, some habits died hard and painful deaths.  
   
One of the tourists went right up to staffer, clearly asking a question. The man nodded, proceeding to point in the direction of the tower, and then twisting to indicate towards the gift shop. As he turned, Dean couldn’t help the little noise that escaped him. It was Nice Hair And Butt And Face Guy from the pub! Buoyed with determination, Dean jumped to his feet. This couldn’t be chance. Fate was definitely at work here.  
   
He began to walk quickly down the hill. When he got closer, he tried waving, but the guy didn’t see him. Undeterred, Dean walked right up, tapped the man on the shoulder and said, “Hey! You!”  
   
“Excuse me?” The man turned to look at him. Dean beamed.  
   
“Hey, are you the guy who—”  
   
But the man wasn’t listening. In fact, as soon as their eyes met and sparked with recognition, the little smile vanished, and Tall, Dark, and Handsome said in lightly accented, clipped tones, “I apologize, I am needed elsewhere,” before doing an abrupt about-face, and speeding off in the opposite direction.  
   
“What the…?” said Dean, as the man vanished around a corner. “Did you see that?” he asked the woman standing at his elbow. She shrugged.  
   
“Maybe nature called.”  
   
“Yeah, right,” Dean muttered, now starting to feel both hurt and irritated. This was the second time this dude had run off at the mere sight of him, and they hadn’t even met. Something was off here, and he was going to set things straight. Dean set his jaw, and began to jog in the direction the man had gone, down over the hill, towards the water.  
   
Dean was so intent on catching his quarry, assuming the guy was probably cowering behind a trashcan or something, that he was completely unprepared to be slammed into one of the half-collapsed retaining walls.  
   
“How did you find me?” his attacker hissed, blue eyes flashing. His bone structure was just as fine up close, Dean’s lizard brain noticed idly.  
   
“Find—what?” Dean winced. Hs shoulder blades were going to ache like a bitch tomorrow. This was definitely not how he’d envisioned their confrontation going. “What the hell are you talking about?”  
   
His attacker opened his mouth and then, as if suddenly registering Dean’s very, very baffled and slowly darkening expression, dropped his hands and stepped back. His gaze didn’t waver though, like he was staring straight into Dean’s soul. It was rather unnerving. He cleared his throat and lifted his chin.  
   
“Why are you following me?”  
   
Dean straightened, rubbing the back of his head where it had smacked against the rock. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, dude. I haven’t been following you.”  
   
The man’s brow furrowed. He frowned, jabbing a finger towards Dean’s chest. “But, you…at the pub…”  
   
“Oh, so you did see me at the pub. Nice to be recognized,” said Dean sarcastically. He held out a hand. “Dean Winchester. Formerly wanting to buy you a drink.”  
   
As Dean spoke, two dull tinges of red appeared on the man’s cheeks. He stared at Dean’s hand, then back up at Dean’s face, suddenly looking a lot less threatening and more just confused. “A drink?” he repeated.  
   
Internally, Dean rolled his eyes. Not a closet case then, just clueless. “Uh, yeah? Look, if you’re not into dick, you could’ve just said so. No need to be so rude about it.”  
   
The man’s mouth opened, then shut with an audible click. “Never mind,” he said abruptly, taking another two steps back. “I must have been mistaken. I must have—mistaken you, for someone else. I apologize.” He turned.  
   
While a large percentage of Dean’s brain was preoccupied with appreciating the gravel of his assailant’s voice, he had enough presence of mind to scramble away from the wall and grab at the man’s wrist. “No, wait!” he said, all the while ignoring the chorus of internal alarm bells chiming at him that he most certainly did not want to tap that, no matter how attractive _that_ was, because _that_ seemed to have some serious, serious issues and—  
   
“Let go of me!” the man cried, flailing.  
   
Despite the fact that Dean was barely holding onto the guy’s wrist, instead of being shaken off, maybe a bit humiliated but generally all right, Dean was instead flung violently back into the rock wall. And it might have been the blow to his head, but several disparate details suddenly came together at once.  
   
Super strength. Super strength enough to keep Dean pinned to a wall, strength enough to _throw_ him into a wall. Fear that Dean was following him, fear of _Dean_. Dean’s hunting instincts flared to life. His eyes narrowed.  
   
“What are you?”  
   
The man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, his face slowly draining of blood.  
   
And then he bolted.  
   
“Hey!” Dean shouted. He gave chase. The man—no, the creature—clearly knew where he was going though. He zigzagged around half-downed columns, jumped over sloping, eroding walls, and expertly avoided all the fallen detritus common to ruined castles perched on edges of picturesque lochs.  
   
Dean panted as he tried to keep up. It soon became clear that they were heading downhill towards the cliffs overlooking the water, possibly even outside the castle grounds. Dean’s mind raced. This was stupid, it told him, sounding uncannily like Sam. He didn’t even have any weapons, let alone any idea what he was after, but he didn’t stop.  
   
It was as he was rounding a corner that he spotted him: a lone figure silhouetted against the water. Dean slowed. The guy had nowhere to go now, but Dean didn’t want to spook him off the cliff.  
   
“I just want to talk!” Dean called. “I swear, I—”  
   
The man jumped.  
   
“Shit.” Dean hurried to the edge, prepared to see either a disaster or some asshole swimming merrily away, but what he was confronted with was anything but that.  
   
Tiny head. Long neck. Grey humped back. The Loch Ness Monster wriggled its massive fins, ducked its head underwater, and vanished beneath the waves.  
   
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”  
   
Dean shut his eyes and tilted his head back. “Sam!” he bellowed, before his legs folded and he half sat, half collapsed on the ground—perfectly positioned, really, to have a second major crisis about his sexuality in as many years.  
   
#  
   
“Okay, so what you’re saying,” Sam said, “is that you tried to hit on some guy, he ran off, and then it turns out he’s the Loch Ness Monster? In human form? Is that what you’re telling me?”  
   
“He must be some kind of shifter,” Dean said. He clutched at his hair, too freaked out about the Nessie thing to bother getting freaked out about Sam’s casual acceptance of the fact that he’d been hitting on a dude.  
   
“Uh,” Sam said. He took a sip of his carrot and coriander soup, and ripped out a chunk of scone. “I really don’t know, Dean.”  
   
“You don’t believe me?”  
   
“No, no!” Sam held up his hands. “I believe you…to an extent,” he added quickly. “Guy could totally be some kind of shifter. But a guy who shifts into the actual Loch Ness Monster? You’ve gotta admit, that’s kind of farfetched.”  
   
“I saw it,” Dean grit out, squeezing his own scone into tiny, tiny crumbs.  
   
“Yeah,” Sam sighed, “I know.” He toyed with his spoon. “So…plan?”  
   
They had to wait for cover of darkness, mostly so that Bobby wouldn’t bitch at them about the time difference when they called him. He still did bitch about the international call of course, until they explained to him that the expense was all on their end. After that he quieted enough to listen to their debrief of the situation, though he did let out a hearty guffaw when Dean was forced to mention the part where he had literally been hitting on the Loch Ness Monster.  
   
“Only you boys,” he said. “I swear to god.”  
   
“So you think we might have something, Bobby?” Dean asked eagerly.  
   
“Dean, the Loch Ness Monster is a myth,” Bobby reminded him. He exhaled, ignoring Dean’s garbled protests on the other line. “But, I’ve got to admit, with the stuff you two manage to run into regularly, I wouldn’t be surprised if you have found the damn beast.”  
   
“I’m thinking silver,” said Dean, making sure to shoot a triumphant look in Sam’s direction. Sam’s eyes narrowed.  
   
“What—are you trying to kill it?” Bobby broke in, appalled. “You serious?”  
   
“Well,” said Dean, “it is the Loch Ness _Monster_.”  
   
“Dean, son, I need to you listen to me real carefully,” Bobby said. “You can’t just go in there and kill Nessie. That would be just about the stupidest thing you could do.”  
   
“Yeah, Dean,” said Sam, an _I told you so_ clear in his eyes.  
   
“What? Why not?”  
   
“Are you really going to make me answer that question? Should I start with the part where he’s the unofficial mascot of the entire Scottish hunting community?”  
   
Dean scowled. “No,” he grumbled. He flipped Sam the finger. Sam stuck out his tongue.  
   
“Well,” Bobby said, “now that’s settled, I guess the next thing you two had better do is figure out if you _are_ dealing with the real monster, or just some other kind of shifter.”  
   
“It’s Nessie,” said Dean.  
   
“Okay, Bobby,” said Sam, taking the phone from him. “What are you thinking?”  
   
#  
   
“I can’t believe this is the best thing Bobby could come up with,” Dean complained. He hoisted his backpack up more securely on his shoulders. “You know how many hundreds of thousands of people have gone hunting for Nessie and not seen him? And Bobby expects us to just go on a hike and spot the thing?”  
   
“No, Dean,” Sam said. “How many?”  
   
Dean hesitated. “A lot,” he settled on, since he’d more skimmed that book in the gift shop than read it.  
   
“Well,” said Sam, “you’ve apparently seen him three times in three days without even trying, so at this point you’re our best lead.”  
   
Dean’s jaw worked. “This is stupid.”  
   
“You’re telling me,” Sam muttered.  
   
“What was that?”  
   
“I’m going to go check out that little trail,” Sam said. He pointed. “Looks like it leads to the top of the hill.”  
   
“Don't forget the binoculars,” Dean said dully.  
   
“I think the trail meets this one again on the other side. Meet you there?”  
   
Dean glared at him balefully.  
   
“I’m going to take that as a yes.” Sam took the binoculars from him and began to walk. “Hey, if you spot Nessie, tell him hi from me, okay?”  
   
“I hate you,” Dean said. He blew air out of the corner of his mouth as Sam gave a cheery wave, and started forward again. “I should’ve just kept my mouth shut,” he told a sympathetic looking pine. He watched for a few minutes as Sam climbed the hill before his brother finally vanished from sight between the trees.  
   
He began to take a step, and then froze. The birds had gone quiet. Something rustled behind him. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Slowly, he turned.  
   
“Yes, you really should have,” said the Loch Ness Monster.  
   
Dean’s first instinct was to go for his gun, but then he remembered that he didn’t have one. Sam had their only knife. “You.”  
   
“Me.”  
   
Dean’s eyes narrowed, adrenaline beginning to surge beneath his skin. So what if he didn’t have a weapon? He could totally take this guy.  
   
The Monster continued to stare at him, legs crossed, fingers laced together, the very picture of calm and unthreatening.  
   
Dean’s shoulders slumped. “I think I should really be more surprised than I am.”  
   
The Loch Ness Monster unfolded himself from where he’d been sitting on a rock, and extended his hand. “Dean Winchester,” he said. “I am Castiel.”  
   
Dean eyed the hand in question. “You’re lucky TSA confiscated my guns,” he said, before gingerly reaching forward and shaking it. “And all my knives.” Nessie—no, _Castiel_ , apparently—had warm palms.  
   
The-Man-Formerly-Known-As-Nessie sniffed. “Guns would do me little injury,” he said, just this side of arrogant.  
   
“I’m sure I could think of something,” Dean growled, bitter that on short notice they’d only been able to get hold of one good silver knife—and that it was currently stuck through Sam’s belt.  
   
Castiel dipped his head. “From what I’ve heard, I’m inclined to think you could.”  
   
“From what you heard?” Dean asked, curious despite himself. Castiel fixed him with a look.  
   
“I’m a monster, not an imbecile,” he said, voice sharp. “I know what you are, Dean Winchester.”  
   
“Great, well that makes one of us. And what am I?”  
   
“You’re a hunter,” Castiel said. He looked less than pleased about it. “Just my luck.”  
   
“Okay,” said Dean, barely refraining from demanding to know just how exactly the goddamn Loch Ness Monster had managed to come by that particular piece of information. “And…what are you? Aside from the Loch Ness Monster part,” he added hastily, “I think I’ve got that one figured out.”  
   
Castiel sighed. “It’s very complicated.”  
   
Dean spread his arms just as Sam stumbled down the side of the hill towards them. “I have all the time in the world.”  
   
Castiel grimaced. “Care for a drink?”  
   
#  
   
Castiel led them back to the very same pub across the street from their hotel. “This is my favorite pub,” he told them, as he ducked inside. It was barely four in the afternoon, so the pub was still fairly quiet. Castiel slid into one side of a secluded booth. The Winchesters followed suit. Dean handed off their drinks.  
   
“Nessie has a favorite pub,” murmured Sam.  
   
“His name is Castiel,” Dean hissed, “don’t be rude.” He smiled apologetically at Castiel, who continued to watch them, unblinking.  
   
Sam brought his hand up to massage his temples. “So…Castiel,” he said carefully, as if feeling the sound of the name on his tongue. “Do you mind explaining why you’re, uh, well, _explaining_?”  
   
Castiel frowned at him. He looked at Dean. “I don’t understand.”  
   
“What he means,” Dean said, “is why are you here talking to us, instead of, I don’t know, hiding out at the bottom of the lake?”  
   
“Loch.”  
   
“Whatever.”  
   
Castiel took a swallow of his drink, then stared down into it. “You’re hunters.”  
   
“Yeah? So?”  
   
“In my experience, hunters tend to be rather tenacious about killing something once they’ve set their mind to it. I thought I’d be better off giving you a reason not to.”  
   
“Uh.”  
   
“He’s got a point,” said Sam.  
   
“Besides,” Castiel said with obvious distaste, “my brother might enjoy faking his own death for amusement, but after that business with Colm Cille, I’ve found that the hassle just isn’t worth it.” He looked up after a moment to see the Winchesters staring at him. “What?”  
   
“There are more of you?” Dean asked, his voice noticeably higher than before.  
   
“No,” Castiel said, “there is only one of me.” He took another gulp of his drink, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.  
   
“You just said you had a brother,” Sam pointed out.  
   
Castiel’s mouth twisted. “As I said: it’s complicated.”  
   
Dean slowly shook his head. “I think,” he said, “you’re going to have to start at the beginning.”  
   
Sam nodded wordlessly in agreement.  
   
There was a moment of quiet. Castiel tapped his fingers on the side of his glass. “Have you ever heard of the war in heaven?”  
   
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. “Are you about to ask me if I’ve heard about your Lord and Savior?” Dean asked carefully. Castiel gave him an annoyed look.  
   
“No. Why would I do such a thing?”  
   
“Just checking.”  
   
Castiel flicked the glass again. “Well, have you?”  
   
“Heard about your Lord and Savior? I mean, we’ve had guys knock on motel doors before, but—”  
   
“No, I meant the war in heaven. Not,” Castiel waved his hand, “whatever else you’re talking about.”  
   
Dean pursed his lips. “Is this a metaphorical war?”  
   
“No,” Castiel snapped, “an actual one.”  
   
“Castiel,” Sam said slowly, “are you talking about _the_ war in heaven? The one in the bible? With—with Lucifer?”  
   
At the name, Castiel flinched. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “That would be the war to which I am referring.”  
   
“Uh, Sam?” said Dean. “The bible’s not real. You know that, right?”  
   
“Neither is the Loch Ness Monster,” Sam replied. Dean’s gaze flickered over to Castiel, who glared at little, and then back to Sam. He rubbed his forehead.  
   
“Point,” he said. He took a deep breath, and leaned his elbows on the table. “So, Cas. Tell us about the war in heaven.”  
   
Castiel gave him a long, assessing stare. He took another drink, swallowed, and set the half-empty glass on the table. “Lucifer was the brightest of us,” he said. “When he turned his back on our father’s rule, many of my brothers and sisters cleaved to him.”  
   
“ _Us_?” Sam interrupted  
   
“Angels.”  
   
“ _Bro_ —” Dean slapped a hand over Sam’s mouth and gave Castiel an apologetic grimace.  
   
“I did not,” Castiel continued, “but when the war started, neither could I bring myself to fight against my siblings. I could not bear to see them slaughter one another.” He looked down at the table. “So I did nothing.” He rotated the glass. “When Lucifer was cast down into the pit and his followers with him, I was brought before Michael.”  
   
He sighed. “This is my punishment,” he said, indicating his body with the sweep of his hand. Then he frowned. “Well, the form of the monster is my punishment, I suppose. _This_ —” he indicated himself again, “–is something else.”  
   
There was a very long pause. Sam finally succeeded in pushing Dean’s hand off his mouth. He crossed his arms.  
   
“So let me get this straight,” Dean said finally, ignoring the scowl Sam was sending his way, “you were, uh—” he stumbled, then recovered, “an angel. I’m assuming. I’m assuming that’s what you mean.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Okay, assuming that we believe you that angels exist—”  
   
“We exist.”  
   
“We’ve never seen one,” Sam pointed out. “No one’s ever seen one.”  
   
Castiel grit his teeth. “If I wanted to lie to you, I would think of a better story.”  
   
Sam and Dean exchanged glances.  
   
“Can you prove it?”  
   
Castiel glowered. “Obviously I’m not an angel anymore. But if it will convince you that I’m not a shifter,” he nodded to Sam, “bring out the silver knife.” He eyed Dean knowingly. “You’ve already tried the holy water in my drink.”  
   
Sam’s eyes darted to the other tables, but no one seemed to be paying attention to them. He reached beneath the table and pulled out the knife, setting it between them.  
   
“If I may?” Castiel queried, pushing up his sleeve. He reached for the knife and, taking the hilt, quickly sliced across his forearm. Red blood welled up from the cut, but there was no hissing noise or burning. Castiel dabbed at it with a napkin before cleaning the blade and sliding it back across the table.  
   
Dean blew air out of the corner of his mouth. Sam continued to look doubtful. Dean massaged his temples. “Yeah, okay. So you’re saying that, because you didn’t want to fight in a war, Michael—sorry, _the_ Michael, yes Sam, I do know who Michael is, you know I’ve had that exorcism memorized since you were in diapers—punished you for being a, a conscientious objector or whatever, by turning you into the Loch Ness Monster?”  
   
Castiel’s brow furrowed. “Yes,” he said finally, “that seems about right.” He indicated his arm to them. The cut was already scabbing over. “I’m no longer an angel,” he repeated. “But there are some—side effects.”  
   
“Jesus Christ,” said Dean. “This is so out of my pay grade.”  
   
“Okay,” said Sam, “so, if you’re being punished by getting turned into the Loch Ness Monster, then how are you, you know,” he indicated. Castiel raised an eyebrow.  
   
“Human?”  
   
Sam coughed. “Yes. That.”  
   
Much to their surprise, the corner of Castiel’s mouth twitched upward. “I wasn’t the only one who refused to join the fight,” he said, “but the brother who shared my views was much more powerful than I.” He made a rueful face. “And much better at avoiding detection. When he became aware of my predicament however, he was willing to assist me to the best of his abilities. Unfortunately, Michael would have known if his work was entirely reversed, so the options were—somewhat limited.”  
   
“He turned you human?”  
   
Castiel wrinkled his nose. “In a sense. If I stay in this form too long there are some, ah, discomforts.”  
   
“Discomforts,” Dean said slowly. “Care to elaborate on that?”  
   
Castiel looked a little bit embarrassed. “I, um. I get hungry.”  
   
“…Hungry.”  
   
Sam blinked in alarm. “And what exactly do you eat in, uh, monster form?”  
   
Castiel straightened. “Fish, of course,” he said, a little insulted.  
   
“Oh,” said Sam faintly. “Fish. Of course.” He turned to Dean. “He eats fish.”  
   
“Yeah, I heard,” Dean said impatiently, still focused on Castiel, who continued to explain,  
   
“Even if I ate fish for every human meal that I consume, it would hardly be enough to sustain my other form, so I am forced to revert in order to eat.” He shrugged. “My other form is actually closer to my original stature as an angel. In some ways it’s almost more comfortable.”  
   
At that tidbit of information, Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Just how big were you?”  
   
Castiel’s gaze caught and locked with his. “Very,” he said firmly. Dean’s cheeks tinged pink. Sam cleared his throat.  
   
“So you just shift to eat and spend the rest of the time hanging out here?”  
   
“Well, not just to eat,” Castiel admitted.  
   
“Okay, why else?”  
   
Castiel hesitated, and then he sighed. “It’s my skin,” he said. “It gets very dry.”  
   
Sam shut his eyes. “You turn into a monster because of dry skin,” he said flatly.  
   
Castiel squirmed a little. “It’s very uncomfortable,” he defended. “I dislike the itchy feeling.”  
   
“Dry skin can be very uncomfortable,” Dean agreed.  
   
They sat in silence for a few moments. Dean’s gaze flickered to Castiel, lingering on the curl of his hair, the jut of his chin. He looked considering. Internally, Sam groaned. He knew that look. It spelled bad things for Sam.  
   
Sam took a deep gulp of his beer. “You know what?” he said, standing. “I think I’ve been reasonably convinced not to kill you, even if I’m not entirely convinced about the angel thing. I think Dean here would agree.”  
   
“Huh?” Dean shook himself away from watching the movement of Castiel’s throat as he drank the last of his glass.  
   
“Dean.”  
   
“Oh yeah, yeah. Totally convinced. Can I get you another glass of that, Cas? I can call you Cas, right?”  
   
“I—yes. That would be appreciated, thank you.” Castiel inclined his head, a thoughtful look in his eyes.  
   
“What’s your poison?”  
   
Castiel frowned.  
   
“What do you want to drink?”  
   
Castiel opened his mouth, then hesitated. “Surprise me,” he said instead, that little half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth again.  
   
Dean’s eyebrow rose. He winked. “Okay.”  
   
That did it.  
   
“I think I’ll go to bed,” Sam decided, mostly to himself as he watched Castiel watch Dean’s backside make a beeline for the bar.  
   
“Are you tired?” Castiel queried vaguely, still not really looking at him. “It’s still very early.”  
   
“Exhausted,” said Sam, voice flat.  
   
“I hope our discussion was sufficient?”  
   
“Actually,” said Sam, against his better judgment, “I do still have a lot of questions about heaven and stuff—”  
   
“Here you go, Cas.” Dean set the drink down in front of him. “I just got you what was on tap. Got one for me too.” He held up his own glass. “Hope that’s all right?”  
   
“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel was glancing up at him from below his eyelashes. Sam nearly rolled his eyes as Dean’s chest visibly inflated. Jesus, Sam thought, you’d think learning that the Loch Ness Monster was actually a cursed angel would’ve made Dean’s libido disappear, not worsen it.  
   
“No problem.” Dean sat down again across from Castiel. Only then did he appear to notice that Sam was no longer in the booth, but instead standing next to it. “Sammy?”  
   
“Dean.”  
   
Dean gave him an inquiring look. “Uh, you just gonna stand there or what?”  
   
“I was thinking of going to bed.”  
   
“Really? Kind of early for that, isn’t it?”  
   
Sam managed to conjure up the facsimile of a smile. “I’m very tired.”  
   
“Huh.” Dean shrugged. “Okay.”  
   
Sam turned to Castiel. “I’ll finish asking you my questions some other time,” he said. He let his gaze travel over to Dean. “I get the feeling we’ll be seeing some more of each other.”  
   
“If you’re sure,” Castiel said uncertainly.  
   
Dean was now licking his lips, unconsciously or consciously Sam couldn’t tell, but he wasn’t sticking around to find out. “Absolutely.”  
   
“Then,” said Castiel, “goodnight, Sam. It was a pleasure to meet you.”  
   
“Night, Sammy!”  
   
Sam waved them away, shaking his head as he reached the door, pulling it open to the cooling evening air. He could only pray that Dean wouldn’t try and bring Castiel back to their hotel room. There were limits to his patience, after all.  
   
“So, Cas,” Dean said, after he had gone. “Tell me more about this…monster-angel-human thing.”  
   
“I’m not entirely sure what you mean.”  
   
“Well,” Dean said, “let’s start with angel. Did you have a harp?”  
   
“You don’t believe me.”  
   
“It’s a lot to take in.”  
   
“Demons exist,” Castiel pointed out. “Why is it so difficult to believe that angels do too?”  
   
“So angels are the twisted souls of the damned?”  
   
Castiel leaned back in the both, steepling his fingers. “No,” he said. “We were God’s firstborn. His soldiers. Beyond human comprehension.”  
   
Dean looked amused. “Beyond human comprehension, huh?”  
   
Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “I was energy in its purest form. A wave of celestial intent.”  
   
“And now you’re a monster.”  
   
“Technically,” Castiel said, not allowing Dean to goad him, “that form is not a monster. It’s a plesiosaur.”  
   
“A what?”  
   
“From the Mesozoic.”  
   
“The what?”  
   
“Late Triassic through the Cretaceous.”  
   
“You’re a dinosaur.”  
   
“Michael,” Castiel said, not at all bitterly, “has a poor sense of humor.”  
   
“I don’t get it.”  
   
Castiel exhaled. “Lucifer’s break with the Host was entirely about humanity, Dean. Michael thought that one who refused to see the merits of humanity was, as you say now, ‘living in the age of the dinosaurs.’”  
   
“So he turned you into one.”  
   
“This despite the fact that I was never counted among Lucifer’s followers. If I had been, I would be in hell now and the point would be moot. Besides,” Castiel sniffed, “Michael’s grasp on speciation is poor. A plesiosaur is not even a dinosaur, it’s a reptile.”  
   
“A reptile, huh?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Okay, so what was that like?”  
   
“Incredibly boring,” Castiel admitted. “Until my brother found me, I slept most of the time.”  
   
Dean leaned forward. “How’d he end up finding you?”  
   
At the question, Castiel looked, if possible, a little embarrassed. “Several hundred years ago, a human of religious prestige was drawn to my home. Believing me to be a—monster—we may have, er, battled.”  
   
“Did you kill him?”  
   
“Of course not!” Castiel sounded appalled. “He was destined for sainthood.”  
   
“Wait.” Dean frowned. “Was this that ‘Column Kill’ guy you talked about earlier?”  
   
“Colm Cille,” Castiel corrected. “And, yes.”  
   
“Never heard of him.”  
   
“He’s more commonly known these days as ‘St. Columba,’ so I hear.”  
   
Dean pursed his lips. “Nope,” he said finally. He leaned forward and winked at Castiel. “But I have heard of you. I think the whole world’s heard of you.”  
   
Castiel cast his eyes down at the table. “Yes, I understand that I am quite sought after in some quarters.”  
   
“Come on.” Dean shoved him good-naturedly in the shoulder. “You work in your own museum. You love it.”  
   
“Technically, it’s Castle Urquhart’s gift shop.”  
   
“I bet you have a collection of Nessie paraphernalia.”  
   
“I have a mug,” Castiel allowed.  
   
Dean snorted. “See?” He then glanced at his empty glass. “Want another?”  
   
“Please,” said Castiel.  
   
By the time Dean came back with their third and then fourth rounds, they were well on their way to complete inebriation.  
   
“Now, now, human hunters I get, but Loch Ness Monster hunters? I’m sorry, but I just can’t see you chasing down a werewolf.”  
   
“I,” said Castiel seriously, “have a— _hic_ —reputation to maintain. Can’t have— _hic_ —other monsters in my territory.”  
   
“Gotta protect your humans, huh? Is that a leftover angel thing?”  
   
“Nat—naturally. It’s why I saved you, you know?”  
   
“Me?” Dean put his glass down blearily.  
   
“From drowning.” Castiel leaned his cheek against the cool glass of the window. “I regretted it at first, when I realized you were a hunter,” he admitted, “but not anymore.” He closed his eyes. “Monster-hood is very lonely. I’m cut off from my brothers and sisters. This is the first conversation I’ve had in ages where I can truly—” he cut himself off, grabbing for his drink. “Anyway.”  
   
“Cas…” Dean said.  
   
Their eyes caught and held.  
   
“Yes, Dean?”  
   
“Tell me more about these ‘merits of humanity’ you’ve been discovering.”  
   
“All right.” Castiel began to pick at the plate of appetizers Dean had brought over with their fourth round. “Humans,” he began, “are very complex.”  
   
“No kidding.”  
   
Castiel hushed him with a glare. “Sometimes loyal, sometimes treacherous. Occasionally unnervingly friendly.” He frowned, popped a chip into his mouth, sucking the salt off his fingers. Dean watched avidly. “I’ve met all the layers of humanity, over the years.”  
   
“Oh yeah?” Dean’s voice was hoarse. “And what do you think?”  
   
Castiel shrugged. “Generally I like you,” he said, “more than my siblings do, I think. It’s that free will business I suppose.” He fixed Dean with a look. “If there’s one thing I don’t understand however,” he said, “it’s the sex thing.”  
   
Dean nearly inhaled his beer. “I beg your pardon?”  
   
“The sex thing, Dean,” Castiel said. “Humans are always so obsessed with it. I don’t understand.”  
   
“Well,” Dean made himself ask, breathing deeply through his nose, “have you ever, you know, tried it?”  
   
“Of course,” Castiel replied indignantly. “I’ve just never found it entirely satisfying.” He sighed. It was a little over-dramatic, Dean noticed. He took that as his cue.  
   
“Well,” Dean said, leaning in, “maybe you’re trying it with the wrong people.”  
   
Castiel matched him motion for motion. “And who,” he said, “would you suggest?”  
   
“Oh, I don’t know.” Their faces were very close now, their breaths intermingling. “Someone who could handle a former angel.” He smirked at Castiel’s quick inhale. “Someone with— _experience_ —when it comes to the supernatural.”  
   
Castiel’s nostrils flared. “You presume much, Dean Winchester.”  
   
Dean couldn’t stop smirking. He let his hand wander up to clasp at Castiel’s wrist. “Am I wrong?”  
   
In response, Castiel seized the front of Dean’s jacket and dragged him the rest of the way across the table and into a soul-stealing kiss. Dean groaned happily, his toes curling. Apparently, several hundred years of dissatisfying sex still counted for something. He licked his lips as Castiel disengaged. “So?”  
   
“You don’t mind?”  
   
“Mind what?” Dean said, impatient.  
   
Castiel gave him a look. Dean’s eyes widened in realization. “Oh, you mean the monster thing.”  
   
Castiel’s gaze did not waver.  
   
“Or the angel thing?”  
   
“Either one would usually be reason enough.”  
   
“Well, you’re human right now, aren’t you?”  
   
Castiel opened his mouth, then closed it. “Yes.”  
   
“Human enough to want to have sex.”  
   
Castiel’s eyes darkened. “Clearly.”  
   
“Then I don’t see what the problem is.”  
   
Castiel stared at him for a full five seconds, and then he stood up quickly, Dean rushing to collect his things and follow. They banged out of the pub, the door swinging behind them. Castiel reached a hand back to grab at Dean’s, pulling him along.  
   
“You live nearby?”  
   
“A couple streets away.”  
   
They stopped at an apartment complex only a few streets away. Dean took the opportunity to push Castiel against the side of the wall.  
   
“What are you doing?”  
   
“Oh, nothing,” Dean said, as he dropped to his knees and began mouthing at Castiel through the fabric of his jeans.  
   
“We are in _public_ ,” Castiel hissed, glancing wildly around.  
   
“No one’s watching.”  
   
“ _Dean_.” Castiel closed his eyes.  
   
“You want me to stop?” Dean asked, now toying with the zipper.  
   
“ _Ngh_.” Castiel reached down and hauled Dean up by the armpits.  
   
“Whoa, you work out or something?”  
   
“Side effect of my condition,” Castiel said, in between peppering Dean’s face with kisses. “Not outside, Dean.”  
   
“Fine, fine.” Dean fluttered his eyelashes. “But I thought you wanted it to be _satisfying_. Just trying to keep the spark alive, man.”  
   
“Upstairs,” Castiel said hoarsely, fumbling with the keys.  
   
They took the stairs two at a time and tumbled into Castiel’s one-room flat. Dean had about three seconds to take in the bare walls and the empty kitchen, before his attention was arrested by the queen-sized bed in the corner, half-hidden by a set of Japanese folding screens. He opened his mouth, but Castiel beat him to the punch, pressing a firm, hot kiss to his lips, and then bearing him down onto the bed.  
   
“Whoa, whoa, Cas.” Dean gripped him by the shoulders, not really surprised to find himself flat on his back. “Take it easy, man. I’m not going anywhere.”  
   
Castiel’s eyes were feverish. “What?”  
   
“See, the thing is,” Dean said, hooking his legs around Castiel’s hips and flipping them neatly, “I think that if you want this to go, you know, _differently_ —” he mouthed at Castiel’s neck, then leaned back to admire his handiwork “—you might want to let me do some of the work.” He let his fingers play towards the buttons of Castiel’s shirt. “At least this time.”  
   
Castiel’s throat worked as he struggled out of his shirt. “This time?”  
   
Dean shrugged, deliberately nonchalant. He reached down to gently brush his hands across the bulge at Castiel’s groin. Castiel’s eyes rolled up in the back of his head, the color high in his cheeks. “I thought that after I get you off, you might want to fuck me later.”  
   
The rest of their clothing came off much more quickly after that.  
   
#  
   
It was birdsong and faint light through the curtains that brought Dean slowly back to consciousness. His head still throbbing a little after the libations from the previous night, he rolled over, only to collide with something warm and pliable.  
   
“Sleep more,” Castiel grunted, tugging the blanket over his head, his back to Dean, but Dean wasn’t having it. He supposed that this was the part where, if this had been a normal one-night stand, he would gather his clothes and tiptoe out of the room, to do the walk of shame back to his hotel. However—  
   
“Nah, breakfast,” Dean said, as he began to nibble at the bit of shoulder he could see poking out from the blanket.  
   
“You’re insatiable,” Castiel sighed, but allowed the attention. Soon enough he was pushing back against Dean, who was only too pleased to continue with this state of affairs. Castiel sighed again as Dean reached an arm around him towards his groin.  
   
“I’m only human,” Dean reminded him, as he began to move more forcibly against the small of Castiel’s back. He grinned quietly to himself as Castiel made a gasping noise, and doubled his efforts to thrust into Dean’s palm. “You know?”  
   
“Ye—yes, humans and your, your—”  
   
“The sex thing,” Dean supplied helpfully. He bit down on the juncture between Castiel’s neck and shoulder, and Castiel made an honest to god squeak.  
   
“Yes,” Castiel said, gasping now. “That. Dean…”  
   
“I’ve got you,” Dean murmured. “Come on, Cas.” He was close, he knew it. He could feel the wetness spreading around his hand, making it that easier to slide up and down Castiel’s length. He dipped around, fondled Castiel’s balls, pressed kisses to the back of his neck, rubbed his own hardness against Castiel’s back, smearing it with precum.  
   
“Dean,” Castiel managed, one more time, before he stiffened, crying out softly. Dean felt the wetness of him, and he squeezed gently, milking Castiel for all he was worth. His own groan caught him by surprise and he followed Castiel into heady release.  
   
They breathed together for a moment, Dean surreptitiously reaching back to wipe his hand off on the washcloth left over from the night before, left half-hanging off the nightstand.  
   
“So?” Dean asked, after a few minutes had passed. What he meant was that he had heard the steadying of Castiel’s breathing, and that he had been serious about that breakfast thing. But to his surprise, Castiel turned over, pinning his wrists to the bed and, after thoroughly bruising an already bruised mouth with a kiss said, nuzzling Dean’s hair,  
   
“I think I am beginning to understand the,” he hesitated, “the human sex thing.” He inclined his head. “Thank you.”  
   
“Oh,” Dean said, a little uncomfortable beneath Castiel’s laser gaze. “Well, good.”  
   
“Good,” Castiel echoed. He let go of Dean’s wrists, allowing him to struggle upright. The blankets fell down to his lap, revealing a torso covered in red marks and not a few scratches. Castiel’s eyes glazed over at the reminder, but then he shook himself.  
   
“So…” Dean bit his lip. “Breakfast?” he suggested again.  
   
Castiel looked very relieved at the distraction. “There is a small bakery on the corner.” He glanced over at the empty kitchen. “I apologize, I do not tend to keep much food here.”  
   
“That’s fine,” Dean said, glancing this way and that in the hopes of locating his underwear. “Bakeries are good. Oh, thanks.” He took the pair of jeans that Castiel offered him. “Have you seen my shirt?”  
   
Considering the size of the flat, it took a considerable amount of time for the pair of them to hunt down their respective clothing and dress again. Of course, a good chunk of that time could also have been attributed to the short shower Dean insisted on, which turned out to take somewhat longer than expected after Castiel followed him in and proceeded to demonstrate—on his knees—just how well he had been paying attention to Dean’s ministrations the night before.  
   
It was a dazed Dean and a thoroughly ruffled Castiel who finally exited the flat. Dean wasn’t really much for handholding, but found that when Castiel grabbed at him to tug him along, that he didn’t have the heart to object.  
   
It wasn’t until they were halfway down the street, Dean just beginning to catch the scent of fresh bread and maybe coffee, that he realized that there was someone standing in their way.  
   
Dean squinted as they moved closer. He seemed somewhat familiar, but it wasn't until they were only a few feet away that he recognized him.  
   
“Uh, George, right?” he said tentatively. “Hi?”  
   
George smiled at him, showing teeth. “Deano!” he said. “What a surprise.”  
   
Next to him, Den could feel Castiel grow very still. Dean got as far as a, “What’re you—” before Castiel let out an incredulous,  
   
“Gabriel?”  
   
Dean shut his mouth. He turned to Castiel, who was now openly scowling. “What?”  
   
“Gabriel,” Castiel repeated, as if that was the only thing he could manage to get out at this point. He gestured helplessly at George, who continued to smile, arms crossed.  
   
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Who?”  
   
“Oh, come now, Dean,” George—no, _Gabriel_ , apparently said. “You’ve heard of Michael and Lucy, but you’ve never heard of me?”  
   
Dean felt the bottom of his stomach drop. He swiveled to Castiel accusingly. “Is he serious?”  
   
If anything, Castiel looked embarrassed. “Unfortunately.”  
   
“This is the brother you were talking about?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Gabriel.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“ _The_ Gabriel.”  
   
“So you have heard of me?”  
   
“Yes, Dean,” Castiel said.  
   
“Hey.” Dean rounded on Gabriel. “You said you were married.”  
   
Gabriel shrugged. “I needed to make conversation.” He looked at Castiel, winking, “I see you took the hint though. Nice job.”  
   
Castiel squeezed his eyes shut. “I am not discussing this with you.”  
   
“Oh, come on, Castiel.” Gabriel spread his arms wide. “I picked him out special for you!”  
   
“You what?” Dean said, while at the same time Castiel tugged him along.  
   
“Gabriel has a habit of meddling in my life,” he muttered, “I apologize, Dean.”  
   
“What are you apologizing for?” Gabriel asked, as he appeared in front of them to open the door to the bakery. Dean nearly fell over.  
   
Castiel’s jaw clenched. “Gabriel,” he growled.  
   
“Jesus,” Gabriel said, “are you sure you got laid last night?” He smirked as Castiel promptly turned bright red. “Oh ho! You did!”  
   
“Your brother’s kind of an asshole,” Dean informed Castiel.  
   
“Excellent at matchmaking though,” Gabriel said, escorting them inside the rest of the way, while Dean sputtered and the corner of Castiel’s right eye twitched. He perused the bakery counter, picking out a set of scones and three sausage rolls, and bustling them through the line before either Dean or Castiel could take a breath to object.  
   
“Gabriel,” Castiel managed when they were outside again.  
   
Gabriel raised his eyebrow at him. Castiel fell silent. He reached into the bag and stuffed a sausage roll into Dean’s mouth as soon as he opened it.  
   
“ _Mmph_ ,” said Dean.  
   
“Now, brother-mine,” Gabriel said, handing off a scone to Castiel, who took a sullen bite, “there is a method to my madness.”  
   
Castiel looked thoroughly unconvinced. Gabriel pushed on.  
   
“Come on, I managed to find possibly the only human in the entire world who wouldn’t run screaming when confronted with your other half. I think that alone deserve applause. I know you’ve been lonely.” He smiled. “Not as much animal magnetism as me,” he explained to Dean, who was beginning to look a bit murderous. “It’s all right, it’s not meant for everyone.”  
   
Castiel crossed his arms.  
   
“Fine.” Gabriel rolled his eyes. “It never occurred to you that one of the best hunters in the world might be able to find a solution to your little…” he wriggled his fingers at Castiel, “…issue?”  
   
At that, Castiel frowned. “That’s not why I—” he stopped. “That’s not why.”  
   
“Yes, yes.” Gabriel’s fingers fluttered again, this time towards Dean. “He has a very pretty soul. I _know_ your type, brother.”  
   
Castiel flushed, looking at Dean guiltily.  
   
“Wait, you’re attracted to my _soul_?” Dean said, swallowing the remainder of the sausage roll.  
   
Castiel scuffed his foot, glancing down at the sidewalk. “It’s very bright,” he mumbled after a moment.  
   
Dean stared at him, clearly unsure if he should be flattered or unnerved. “Uh, thanks?”  
   
Gabriel clucked his tongue. “Hopeless, the both of you.” He smiled as they glared at him simultaneously. “That’s the spirit.”  
   
“Man, are you going to get to the point or what?” Dean demanded. “What were you saying about me helping Cas?”  
   
“The possibility exists.”  
   
“Well, why can’t _you_ help him if you’re some kind of all-powerful angel?”  
   
Gabriel looked down his nose at him, an incredible feat, given their disparate heights. “As I’m sure Castiel mentioned, Michael would notice that much grace. Most especially if it was mine.”  
   
“You’re being selfish.”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel interjected. He rested a quelling hand on Dean’s shoulder.  
   
“If you want to call it that.” Gabriel shrugged. “Fact remains, Deano, the lore to change him back might exist.” He glanced at Castiel. “I don’t want to give you false hope, brother,” he said, and for the first time his voice was serious. “But this? This has potential.”  
   
“Gab—” Castiel blinked, as Gabriel disappeared with a jaunty wave. The bag of scones dropped into his hands.  
   
“Does he do that a lot?” Dean asked, scowling.  
   
Castiel turned, still holding the bag. “Often.”  
   
“Huh.” Dean looked contemplative. “What a dick.”  
   
They began to walk back towards Castiel’s flat.  
   
“Cas,” Dean said, stopping just outside the entrance. Castiel looked up. “What he said. About fixing you? Was that—was he right?”  
   
Castiel bit his lip. “I don’t know,” he admitted.  
   
Dean nodded slowly. “That’s really big, man. I don’t know…”  
   
“Dean.” Castiel placed a hand on his arm, stilling him. “It was Gabriel’s suggestion. I never intended to put this on you. I still don’t. You are free to go your own way.”  
   
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Dean lifted one shoulder.  
   
“There is no obligation,” Castiel said quietly. “I swear it.”  
   
They started up the stairs in silence.  
   
“Still,” Dean said conversationally as they entered the flat, “ you know how much Sam just loves his research.”  
   
“I was unaware.”  
   
“Oh. Well, he does.” Dean snagged a stool at what passed for the kitchen table. “Do you have any coffee?”  
   
“Instant.”  
   
“That’ll work.”  
   
Castiel began to fill the electric kettle. “Your brother loves research?” he prompted, as Dean bit into a scone.  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said, mouth full. Castiel wrinkled his nose and handed him a napkin. Dean swallowed and wiped at the corners of his mouth. “Anyway,” he said, “I know he had a lot of like, questions for you. I wouldn’t want to take that away from him.”  
   
“No,” Castiel agreed. His heart was beginning to pound. He got up to pour the hot water and mix it with the coffee. “We wouldn’t want to do that.” He passed a mug to Dean.  
   
“You’d have to leave here,” Dean said quietly, to the table. Castiel stilled, scarcely daring to breath. “Would you be able to do that?”  
   
Castiel allowed his gaze to look past Dean out the window, where he could just see the tops of the hills, a small gleam of the river, smoke rising above the houses. He swallowed. “I’ve lived here a very long time.”  
   
“We could stick to the coasts,” Dean said. “Or the Great Lakes. You know. So you could—so you could eat.”  
   
“You would,” Castiel’s voice caught, “you would do that?”  
   
Dean glanced up, their eyes meeting. “Well I can’t leave you here like this,” he said, like it was obvious.  
   
Years later, Castiel would be able to pinpoint that exact moment as the one where he fell just a little bit in love with Dean Winchester. But for now, all he could do was duck his head, something burning in the back of his throat. “Thank you.”  
   
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean said wryly. “We still need to get you a passport. And get Sammy to agree.” He pulled out his phone as if to dial and then, seeming to think better of it, put it away. “Probably best to explain it in person.”  
   
Castiel furrowed his brow. “Now?”  
   
“Eh,” Dean said, reaching for his coffee, “after breakfast.”  
   
Castiel exhaled, relaxing back into his chair. He pushed another scone towards Dean. “After breakfast,” he agreed.  
   
“And maybe lunch,” Dean added.  
   
The corners of Castiel’s mouth turned up. “And maybe lunch,” he repeated solemnly, watching as Dean wolfed down a second scone.  
   
Really, there was no rush. They would get there.  
   
   
   
 

**Author's Note:**

> The scarf Sam wears is from the Heart of Midlothian F.C or "Hearts" as they're often referred to.
> 
> Saint Columba of Iona supposedly fought the Loch Ness Monster in 565 C.E, banishing it to the River Ness.
> 
> If you didn't catch it, the title here is a play on the story of Saint George and the Dragon.


End file.
